


The Land of Perpetual Misery

by SparksInTheNight



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Attempted Suicide, Blackmail, Capitalism, Character Death, Child Labour, Childbirth, Classism, Community - Freeform, Exploitation, F/M, Factory work, Family, Family Feels, Fantasy elements, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fictional politics, Forced Migration, Found Family, Fuck you I said it, Gen, Gods and Goddesses, Grief/Mourning, Healthy Relationships, Hurt, Hurt very little comfort, Immigration & Emigration, Inequality, Loss of Parent(s), Murder-Suicide, Mythology - Freeform, No Smut, Oppression, Orphans, Past and Present, Poverty, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Powerlessness, Protective Siblings, Protectiveness, Resilience, Resistance, Rich and Poor, Secrets, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Coersion, Siblings, Small Acts of Rebellion, Solidarity, Storytelling, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, Women Being Awesome, Women helping Women, Worldbuilding, fictional setting, fictional universe, freedom of expression, labour abuse, prophets and prophetesses, sexual abuse of a minor, suppression, wealth inequality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27812350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksInTheNight/pseuds/SparksInTheNight
Summary: The lands are burning in misery, drowning in tears.My name is Mihu. I was a peasant farmer, in the years long since passed. In the times long since gone by. I was taken from my home, back when I was alive. I ascended into godhood when I died. But even as a god there was only so much I could do. Most people couldn't even see me. I could however offer bits of protection, support, and strength to the people of my town and my world.It's clear to see that the world needs it.And the baby who just entered this world under the light of the moon? The baby who was just born to an impoverished family of factory workers in the slums? I can tell that the road in front of her will be filled with misery.But when I see her I see hope.——This work is in the public domain and anyone is free to do whatever they want with it.
Relationships: Original Female Character & Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	The Land of Perpetual Misery

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so this is the new and improved version where I edited out all the flaws.

I look down at these lands with my all-seeing eyes. This town had once been my home, before I died. Before I found peace. Before I saved my town, if only for a handful of years. Before I poisoned myself and the one who most wronged me. Before I went though unimaginable pain. Before my life and my freedom and my personhood were ripped from me. Before all of that I was a poor farmer. This place had once been the place where I worked and worried and fell asleep in the arms of my mother. This place had once been somewhere I could love. This place had always been a place of unimaginable misery though. And now it was no different.

The moon glows pale through my skin, casting only half a shadow. I float soundlessly though the narrow, decrepid dirt streets. They hadn’t changed much since I was a young girl toiling on the farm. If anything they’d gotten worse. Much worse.

I stop before a ramshackle hut, made of walls too thin to keep out the cold or the heat and a roof too full of holes to keep out the rain. Many of the houses are like this. I hear the familiar sounds of a woman in labour, of a midwife and neighbours encouraging her on. I look in, ready to bless the mother and her new child with my protection.

The mother is beautiful. She has dark hair and warm skin and angular features. Her name is Maia. Her mother is not here. Her mother lives in a distant town. The girl came here looking for work when she was sixteen and she also found love. She did not however find a way out of the crippling poverty that enveloped so many. Her child takes after her. She is a little baby girl with deep brown eyes and ebony black hair. I can already tell she’ll grow up to be the type of girl men write books and poetry about. The type of girl I was.

This is not even remotely a good thing.

I add her to the list of the infinite people who I keep my eye on.

It used to be that I looked after the town. But now I look after whoever needs me to look after them, wherever they’re from. There is misery in all the corners of the Earth.

They name her Mikali. I give her my protection.

She grows up dirt poor. She knows intimately what hunger feels like. She knows how the weather can rip at you while you have no protection. She knows what it’s like to have to make a bucket of water stretch the whole day between ten people. She know what it feels like to be sick with no hope of medicine. She knows what it feels like to toil in a factory until your arms and legs and mind and heart are nothing but constant screaming. She knows what it feels like to watch neighbours and friends die.

She knows what it feels like to love. She’s the oldest daughter of the block, all the other children being younger than her. She has her baby sister, Violia, her even younger sister Kiani, her neighbour’s sons Tomnio and Julio and Ehano and Jaziko. She has her other neighbour’s children Tami and Lina and Bei and Alissi. She has the children who live across the alley from her, Dialo, Amali, Laia, Aveno, Biko, Tiena, Aria, Joan and Amir. She has her cousins Bailia and Sienna. And she has an unending love and protectiveness for her people and her land.

All the children do. Every single one of them. They are all born into misery and toil, into dehumanization and danger. They are all as strong as they can be. They take care of each other however they can. They are a new generation of young gods, crushed under the heel of oppression just as I was. They have my blessing. Every single one of them.

I watch over them. I look after them. They are children of my town. They are children of my world. They are my children.

Tragedy follows poverty like a shadow because they are two parts of the same whole. When Mika is ten a plague sweeps through. It kills her parents. And the parents of her next-door neighbours. She barely has time to let her grief flow through and out of her. She has to take on extra shifts at the factory, and hold on her pain until it grows and grows into something that tears her apart from the inside. But she has no choice. She has to provide for her family. She has to keep them alive. Even if it kills her. She once again reminds me of myself. They all do.

Time goes past and soon enough Mika is fourteen. She blooms into an extraordinarily beautiful fourteen-year-old girl, face full of angles and eyes darker than the night and larger than the moon. She doesn’t look a bit like me. I have a round face and thick curls. But we both hold the same beauty. I fear for her. But I know I would’ve always feared for her. No matter what. She was born into the shadow of death as it was. That’s what poverty is.

My fears prove to be well-founded. One day she is out buying groceries. A shiny black limousine is driving by, its shaded windows drawn closed against the smells of the slums. It bears the unmistakable polish of the bourgeoisie who rule from the fine mansions of the garden district. Everyone turns and stares at it in fear.

A young man in a fine silk suit and coiffed brown hair steps out. He holds himself like a king. He practically is one. He has no business to be in a place like this. Everyone waits to hear what he had to say.

He asks if a Miss Mikali Sarin is here. She steps forwards, expression carefully blanked. I follow them, keeping invisible. I follow the anxious murmur of the crowd as well. They all know Mika fondly. They all worry for her. When I was alive my community was like this as well. When I died they grieved me but they were relieved that I was finally free. Will it go the same way this time around as well?

Meanwhile in the car he tells her that he will pay for her loved ones’ expenses, he will take care of them. But only if she comes to live with him. It’s not a choice. Not really. _Let your loved ones suffer and die or do as I say._ That is not a choice. It just isn’t.

She doesn’t even get to say goodbye as she is whisked far away from her home, from her people, from all the people who see her as a person.

It’s far too familiar. She is not able to cry. I was not able to cry when it was my time. So I cry for her as I float alongside the car.

She gets to see her family once every few months. It is not nearly enough. But it’s all she has. For the vast majority of the time, she smiles and laughs and lies and hides and plays pretend that she’s the perfect doll for him.

I know that it’s eating her up inside. It eventually ended up killing me after all.

I fucking died.

She bites her tongue as they eat pastries and cakes, while she knows that most people can barely scrape by on beans and rice if even that. She bites her tongue when they do renovations to add another level onto their already huge house, while she knows people who died living on the streets. She bites her tongue as she’s forced into silk dress after silk dress after silk dress while she remembers the children who don’t have winter coats or shoes. She acts loyal and loving and reverent.

And she lets him do whatever he wants to her.

She owes him after all, is what he says.

It’s something I’ve heard before. It’s something that’s never said with sincerity. Even if he believes his own lies. It doesn’t change the fact that they’re lies. There is no benevolent capitalist any more than there is a benevolent king or a benevolent empire or a benevolent master. They’re all the same thing after all.

I follow her still. Give her the bits of strength and protection I can. Being a god doesn’t mean you have ultimate power. I desperately wish I could do more.

One day I follow her to the bridge. She leans down. Gazes intently at the water below. It’s icy. Rushing. Is she going to kill herself? Can she no longer live like this? I understand. I reach out to give her one last hug. So that she might die feeling loved.

She gasps and turns around. Her face is full of surprise yet she looks calmer than she has in a while. And the calm is genuine. After a bit of searching her eyes land on me.

“I ... are ... are you a god?” Her eyes are wide and reverent and more than a bit startled.

“I am. Do you know about Mihu the farmer’s daughter? That’s me.” I keep my voice as soft as I can to calm her down.

I did not think it possible but her eyes go even wider.

“I’m sorry my Lady. It’s an honour. Beyond an honour. To meet you. I’m ... sorry. My Lady.” She quickly moves to kneel down, as she speaks these words, despite the dirty ground beneath us, her face one of pure reverence. As she starts bowing her head, I catch her face in my hands and gently pull her up.

“No, my child. Don’t kneel. You do not need to kneel in my presence.”

“But ... my Lady ... really?”

“Yes really. Stand. Let us talk eye-to-eye.”

“My Lady.” She still bows her head before I lift her chin up. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more about what I can do for you, my child. I’ve been with you since you were but a baby cradled in your mother’s arms. I have seen your life. And I cannot help but weep.”

Her face goes carefully blank at that.

“My Lady I have wronged you. I’m sorry. How can I ever make it up?” she says solemnly, before moving a hand to cover her mouth.

“No. No you haven’t wronged me. Not at all. You’ve been wronged. You’ve been wronged just as I have been. Just as your friends and family have been and just as oppressed people across all of time and space have been. We have all been wronged by inequality and hierarchy. And the way you have been wronged specifically reminds me so much of how I’ve been wronged.”

“My Lady. I am not worthy to compare myself to you.”

“None of that,” I cut her off, “you are my cherished one. As are all your siblings, both biological and adopted. As are all those in the slums of this town. As are the oppressed people the world over. You have no need to doubt yourself.“

I hold her softly, gently by the shoulders. And I look at her. Her eyes are filled with so much grief. So much repression. I know very intimately what it feels like to have eyes like that. I cry. She reaches out to gingerly brush her fingers over my face. When she pulls them back they are stained red.

“I’m so sorry for all that you’ve gone though,” I sob quietly. Her resolve breaks. She starts crying too. Tear after tear after tear flowing down her face. I take her into my arms and she hugs me tight back. We stay like this for a while. Holding each other. Crying into each other’s shoulders. Crying for ourselves. For each other. For the world. Finally, as the sun is painting the sky orange, she pulls back.

“Are you still afraid, child?” I ask, holding her shoulder softly and stroking her cheek in the way that her mother used to do.

“No, my Lady. But it’s still ... it’s still an honour.”

“It’s an honour for me as well. Now tell me, do you remember my story?”

“Yes. Everyone does. My mother told us the version of the story that was passed down in her hometown. The authorities do not allow people to speak of gods and spirits there. They say it’s mere superstition and foolishness. But the people still tell each other. They still pass it down. Not just your story. Countless others.” I nod. This is information I already know but she needs to talk about her mother. The thought warms her.

“And my aunts. They told us of your story too. And the stories of the other gods and spirits and heroes. Their tales were, well they were much the same. But they were always insistent that you all were still fighting on our side. That you hated the system still and you were fighting for the workers however you could. See, though I think you know, the authorities here never deny the existence of the spirits. But they declare that after your deification, you all moved to create the modern world. They claim that you created the modern world in the way that was to your liking. That you approve of the status quo. My aunts always vehemently denied that. They said that gods could not meddle too much with the affairs of the humans but they could give us the strength and inspiration to change the world ourselves, when the time comes. They said that there is no way the gods could be alright with this hierarchical mess of a society.” I notice that she is speaking her mind much more freely now, yet all the reverence in her tone remains. If anything it is stronger, as she thinks about her mother and her aunts and the family she left behind.

“They were right,” I say softly yet strongly. “They were all right. They were all very wise to share the stories with you. Your mother was taught that the gods were not real. But she was right to follow her heart and keep believing. She was right to tell you we were real. Your aunts were taught that the gods were on the side of their oppressors. But they were right to have faith in themselves. They were right to teach you that the gods are on the side of the have-nots.”

“Thank you. I ... I spent so long among the bourgeoisie, nodding along at their entitledness and attending their church services and being told I was nothing that ... that I was beginning to forget.”

“That’s understandable. You need not feel ashamed of that. I’m on the side of the poor. Of the powerless. I always have been. I always will be. So is every other divine being. But let me tell you something else.”

“Yes my Lady?”

I smile at her, cupping her cheeks in my hands.

“What you must realize is that you are part of our story. That you all are part of our story. The story of the gods, of the world, is about people surviving through and struggling against oppression. It is the story of people fighting for equality. It’s the story of those who have been stripped of their rights and dehumanized. You can probably easily see how my story parallels your own, no?”

“Yes my Lady.” We exchange sad, knowing looks.

“Yes. But I also see myself in all the factory workers and the farmers and the unemployed people. They have all been stripped of their humanity and their power, forced to work, and suffer, and miss their loved ones, and be who they don’t want to be. I’m sure Amina from the mining town or Imiko the orphan or Ala the child would see themselves so easily in all the people who are held down by the system. In all the people who have to either kill themselves working or starve, who have to grieve loved one after loved one, who have to smile and pretend everything is okay. Haynen the thief and Amia the teenaged girl would relate to the resourcefulness of the poor and the way you bend or even outright break rules to keep each other safe. I sure relate. I poisoned my abuser. Amia gave me a high five for that, once I reached the Otherworld. Your stories mirror our stories and our stories mirror yours. The fight is for universal equality and liberation. Not to trade old masters for new ones.”

“So what do I do?” Her voice has more hope in it than I’ve heard from her in a long while.

“You tell people what I told you. That you met me. You talked to me. That the gods are definitely on their side. You talk to different gods. And we will tell you how we see ourselves in the people. How the people should see themselves in us. How we are supporting and encouraging them to find liberation. They already know this. Of course they already know this. It’s undeniable. But hearing it from the mouth of a prophet will give them so much strength, so much power. Because now, who are the elites to say that the gods are on their side? Their argument holds no strength at all. Not against the word of a prophet. Do you understand?”

“I do. They will no longer be able to deny it, the bourgeoisie, that the gods are on our side.”

“Yes. And are you willing?”

“Of course I am. I’ll teach your truths, and the truths of the other gods. And all of us together, the gods and the workers and everyone who’s downtrodden. We’ll create a new future. A good future. Free of wealth inequality and power hierarchies. Where we take care of and love each other and the Land and the Water, where we are truly free and truly together.”

She looks so full of life and hope and energy in the orange light of the sunset. She almost seems to glow with it. Of course the sadness is still there. It will always be there. But she has hope now. And that’s a victory.

“Yes my daughter. Now dry your tears and don’t let him see your pain. We’ll talk more tonight.”

“Yes my Lady.”

We hug one last time. I bring my fingers through her hair and kiss her cheek. And then she bows and walks off into the blazing sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like the story come check out my Twitter. My handle is @FSairuv and I post about human rights and social justice.


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